


Remember Me.

by C_AND_B



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, F/F, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:23:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_AND_B/pseuds/C_AND_B
Summary: Clarke forgets. Lexa freaks out. They work out how they're meant to continue on.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested - though I kinda went the other way with it, sorry about that and sorry it took so long. Uni sucks. I suck. I sincerely hope this doesn't suck.

_I’ll be home in ten minutes._

_Emergency._

_Four car pileup._

_Retrograde amnesia._

_I’ll be home in ten minutes. Emergency. Four car pileup. Retrograde amnesia._

_Ten._

_Emergency._

_Pileup._

_Amnesia._

_Ten. Amnesia. Four. Emergen-_

“Lexa!” You startle at the sound of your name. You don’t know how long you’ve just been sitting there, head jammed into your hands, on some dingy hospital floor - long enough that your legs are numb, not long enough for your head to have had time to settle.

All you can hear is voices.

A TV blaring in the distance, a vaguely familiar voice recounting the tale of a story you never want to hear again, a story you wish didn’t exist, a story you really need them to stop replaying at every twenty minute interval.

A woman crying. Her husband consoling her in a tone too broken to really give any comfort. The shake of the doctor’s voice as he attempts detachment and just falls short. The family that appear one by one. Tears. Comfort. More tears.

Clarke. You can hear Clarke. Clarke telling you she’d been home soon. Clarke telling you that she loves you. Clarke telling you about her day with such fresh excitement that you have come to realise she saves for you, because eventually she came to realise that when you asked about her day, you genuinely cared.

You loved when Clarke told you about the traffic and her nose would scrunch up in that particular way. You loved when she complained about the one man who could never quite hang her paintings at just the right angle she asked for. You loved when she explained her new ideas and her eyes would light up in just the right way. You loved when she told you what she ate for lunch, and how many cups of coffee she’d had that day, and what the weather was like even though you were living your day in the exact same place.

You loved it all.

...and now you might never get that privilege again.

“Lex, why are you sitting out here?” Because you don’t know what to say. Because you’re not sure you can say anything. Because you’re afraid. Because-

“She doesn't remember me, Raven.” Your friend falls heavily onto the seat beside you. She drops herself sharply with a huff, dramatic as ever, in what you recognise as an attempt to get you to crack some semblance of a smile. She sighs when she doesn’t get the response she wants, instead changing her tactic and shifting to rest her arm over your shoulders.

It’s strange to think how far you and Raven have come over the years. At first your friendship, or acquaintanceship you suppose, was merely based on the fact that she gave guest lectures at the college you worked at sometimes, and she asked you for advice on your best friend all the time. Then it turned out that she was Clarke’s friend, and suddenly you were asking for advice, and somehow advice turned into you debating science, and politics, and whatever else tickled your fancy.

Turns out Raven Reyes had the odd ability to trample down your walls like only two other people in your life.

“Then make her remember.”

“I’m no neuroscientist but I’m not sure that’s how the human brain works.” You try for a smirk but you know it falls flat. You’re only breathing on reflex, only sitting straight from years of lectures on posture from your mother, only holding in the tears on principle. You can’t function. You don’t know how to function. Not without Clarke. _Your_ Clarke.

“Don't be pedantic; just try to help her, little by little,” Raven urges and you can hear the desperation in her tone. You’re not quite sure if it’s from seeing Clarke so fragile, or watching you crumble five feet away.

Probably both.

“The doctors said her memory might never come back.” You have to brace yourself for the possibility. You have to be ready for such a thing. You can’t just walk around happy and dazed and truly believing that everything will be fine when all the facts point in the opposite direction. You can’t pretend everything is going to be fine when the look the doctor delivered you was nothing other than pity. You can’t. You have to be prepared.

“That implies it also might.”

“Since when were you optimistic about anything?” You question curiously. Raven Reyes was generally nothing short of a pessimist. You think it’s why she and Anya fit together so well, that, and they’re both genuinely crazy in your opinion.

“Since you decided not to be.”

“I don't know why she loves me,” you mumble forlornly. It’s something you’ve thought about before. You know that the two of you standing together look like a force to be reckoned with. But you also know that you’ve spent an inordinate amount of time standing beside her, wondering why she ever decided to spend her time with you, why she wasted her time with someone who she never made sense with on paper.

She was warm while you were cold, open while you were closed, creative while you were logical, special while you were nothing beyond ordinary. She was Clarke and you were just... you.

“What?”

“Clarke, I... I don't understand why she ever wanted to be with me. I mean, I was an asshole when we first met and most of the time I still am. We don't like the same things, we often have completely different opinions on matters, she hates that I crack my knuckles when I’m nervous, and that my car is pretentious, and probably a thousand other things she’s never openly admitted to me.”

“She loves you.” She sounds so sure. It’s the kind of sure you used to feel when you’d catch Clarke watching you wistfully even when you were doing the most miniscule of things. The kind of sure you felt when Clarke called you beautiful as she wiped the sleep drool from your mouth. The kind of sure you felt when she chuckled lowly at your _dorky_ (as she called them) antics – generally your overzealous adoration of flowers.

“Because she had time. It took me three months to build up the courage to kiss her and then she told me she wasn't ready so I waited another four months.” You were so scared when she first pulled away, but you recognised the look in her eyes as one that had been echoed in your own only a few years prior, so you waited.

Then you waited some more.

And some more.

And then Clarke appeared on your doorstep, in an overly dramatic, quasi rom-com manner, and kissed you without hesitation and you knew it was all worth it.

“You not willing to wait this time?” Raven asks, brow cocked like she already knows the answer - she’s right in that assessment of course, there’s really only one way the answer can go.

“I'd wait a thousand lifetimes for Clarke, but I don't know what it was that finally changed her mind about me, and what if it’s something I can’t replicate because it was something so split second, so miniscule? What if I’m forever in love with someone who can’t remember they loved me too?”

“Look I could sit here and give you some gung ho pep talk but instead I’m gonna tell you to stand the hell up, and make that girl remember you, because you aren't the same asshole she met, and even if you were, being your middle man means I'm in on a little secret - she liked you the moment she met you, she just didn't want to admit it.”

“Yeah?” You question timidly, something inside of you still questioning this whole thing despite the earnest look in her eyes, and the softness in her tone that you’re not sure has ever been present before.

“Yeah. Now get that perfect little ass in that room and see your girl.” She winks and you find yourself laughing at the easy way she slips back into her usual persona. You appreciate it. It’s nice to know that even as things change, and even as things go wrong, Raven Reyes will always remain fundamentally the same.

“Perfect little ass?” You can’t help but chuckle out.

“I'm married, not blind.”

“I'm not sure Anya would appreciate that excuse,” you say with a smile, despite not believing in the slightest that Anya would actually question the comment at all. The last time Raven made a particularly clever (and incredibly) crude comment about how hot the new woman in your building was, her wife had high fived her with a cheeky smirk and a wink that said she too had been thinking of a similar thing to say.

They were incorrigible.

They were also perfect for each other – something which was evident from the moment they met, or well, actually, something that you found abundantly clear the first time you met Raven Reyes and all you found yourself thinking about was how similar she was to your best friend.

“She agrees with me.” Of course she did. Why were they even talking about you in that sense? How did that even come about? Did they talk about Clarke too? You know what...

“I don’t think I even want to know what you two talk about behind closed doors.”

“Then stop stalling and go see Clarke.” You halt for a moment. You stare at the door, wondering what exactly you’ll find behind it, wondering how well you’re going to handle it all in reality, wondering what she’ll think of you now, wondering what you’re supposed to say, how you’re supposed to introduce yourself, how you- “This one time we spent three hours discussing-“

“I’m going! I’m going!” You take a breath.

And another.

Then one more.

You move.

* * *

 

“Clarke?” You say timidly. It’s more timid than you’ve ever been in your life. It’s quieter than when you told your parents you were a lesbian. It’s softer than when you first told Clarke you loved her. It sounds broken, and scared, and too much like you’re an inch from the end of your rope. Your voice alone is giving too much away and you can’t even begin to think of the tears brimming in your eyes, preparing to launch themselves dangerously down your cheeks.

“Lexa?” You falter. You haven’t tripped over your own feet since your middle school prom. It was traumatising enough in your youthful mind that you vowed never to do it again. Except now you can barely remember which foot is right and which is left, let alone figure out how to move them in tandem without crossing streams.

For a moment you weren’t sure you’d ever hear her speak your name again. For a second you weren’t sure you’d ever again be witness to the vibrant blue of her eyes, or the small polite smile she adopts when she’s unsure. For a minute you imagined life without her. You don’t ever want to return to that mindset.

But you’re drowning in blue, and she’s smiling softly, and she said your name.

_She said your name._

“You...” Your heart hammers. She said it. You walked in and she said it. You try to smile, despite knowing the end result will be nothing more than a watery grimace. You push through to what you think might at least resemble a regular smile, taking a few more small steps towards her, stopping only when she gasps and turns her smile apologetic.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. That was super misleading. People kept talking about a Lexa and I hadn’t met one yet and then you walked in, all nervous, and I just assumed.” Someone told her your name. She said your name. Someone told her it. _Someone told her your name_.

“You guessed.” You stop walking. It doesn’t go unnoticed by her if the way she stares at your feet like she can suddenly make them move again is anything to go by. She looks up. You indulge her gaze for a split second before you examine the wires in her body and the monitors beeping around her. It makes you feel sick. The sight of her so fragile makes you want to vomit. You school your features; look softly back at Clarke, knowing this can’t be easy for her either.

“Yes,” she admits faintly, sounding apologetic. It urges you to take the last steps, falling into the chair beside her bed resolutely.

“Well, yes, I am Lexa.”

“Last name?” She responds rapidly and you startle much to her apparent amusement. Her small grin makes you smile softly in return as you reply.

“Woods.”

“Favourite colour?”

“Blue,” you chuckle. You know that you stare into her eyes when you say it - it’s what you did the first time she asked the question, obviously Clarke being Clarke her reply was an eye roll, and a responding _has that actually worked for you before,_ but she was blushing when she said it, and you knew somehow it actually had.

“What are we to each other?” She questions abruptly. You don’t reply as swiftly as you did before. You’re not entirely sure how. Can you just say it? Will that make this whole thing even more awkward? Can it get more awkward? Will she know that you’re lying if you say that the two of you are just friends after you stared deeply into her eyes for an extremely unfriendly amount of time?

She must mistake your hesitancy for something else entirely because she continues on with “we’re not one of those, _it’s complicated_ things are we?”

“No we’re not _complicated._ We, err, we date. Girlfriends is generally the term that we go with, although sometimes you call us gal pals when you’re talking to your grandmother – I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her but I’ve gathered she’s quite the homophobe-” If the stories you’ve been told are anything to go by that is the understatement of the century. She does, however, make an incredible chicken pot pie so you can look past some comments.

“You’re rambling,” she cuts in.

“You’re observant,” you retort.

“Girlfriends, huh?” The word seems so small now. _Girlfriends_. It feels like the term for someone you had taken on five dates and nervously asked to be something more as you kissed them on your couch. It didn’t seem like the term you would use for someone you’ve been irrevocably in love with for three years of your life. It didn’t seem like the way to explain how much you felt for each other, how much you gave to each other, how far you’d come.

Girlfriends was not a term that could even begin to comprehend what it was that you and Clarke had but she doesn’t know that.

She doesn’t _remembe_ r that.

“Indeed,” is all you can say in the end.

“So how’d I finally manage to convince you to go out with me?” She grins widely and you can’t help but laugh. You had long since gotten over the tumultuous experience that was trying to get Clarke to date you but that didn’t mean you had forgotten the whole debacle. It took you forever. It took a million different tactics that you weren’t even sure you had in you. (And it took a truck load of bribery donuts to get Raven to spill anything of real value).

“Actually I had to convince you.” And boy did it take some convincing. The first time you met Clarke you walked straight into her. It didn’t go well. The second time you met Clarke it turns out she was commissioned to paint a mural for the wall just outside your office.

You watched her dutifully paint the wall for three weeks. You watched her give it her all. You watched her huff, and sigh, and cheer when it all came together. You didn’t ask her out until the day she finished. She said no. You found out where her studio was and sent flowers the next day before asking her out again. She said no.

You got more and more creative after that. She still said no. But you kept trying. You don’t know why. It was ultimately a pretty soul crushing experience and then after waiting and waiting, a rain soaked Clarke appeared on your doorstep kissing you harder than you had ever been kissed in your life at three in the morning on a dreary Tuesday.

“That’s preposterous,” she gasps dramatically.

“I thought so too at the time, and then you agreed, and I realised you should have made me try a lot harder.” You would’ve too. The sincerity of your statement must spark something inside her because her knuckles brush briefly across your hand with an unrivalled softness before she goes about trying to sit up more attentively.

“I don’t believe you. This is a story that I have to hear.” You instinctively aid her in sitting up, fluffing the pillows behind her back before you lean back into your chair with a smile.

“Buckle up, babe, it’s a bumpy ride.” You flinch at the term of endearment before you notice her playful grin.

“That’s what she said.”

“At least you haven’t forgotten your higher order humour.” Her hand flies out uncoordinatedly as she haphazardly tries to punish you for the comment. It brushes past your bicep pathetically but your responding quip is cut short when you witness the adorable pout on her face (you could never say no to that pout, or to Clarke for that matter - see: the bright yellow feature fall in your living room).

“Just start the story, Miss Judgy.”

“Well it all began...”

* * *

 

It’s a couple of days later when the true strangeness of this whole ordeal hits you. Evidently the whole thing is strange. It’s strange to keep telling Clarke random facts about your life like she hasn’t already been told them. It’s strange to tell Clarke about moments that she’s already experienced, moments that she should remember.

You’re greeted at the door of her hospital room with a happy wave and a wide smile. In the scheme of things, it’s not so weird; it’s something you’d actually grown used to. You’d arrive at the door of Clarke’s home studio and it was always the same routine – smile, wave, kiss, _how was your day?_ The thing is when you first met, it did not work that way, in fact, it was generally something more along the lines of – glare, groan, reluctant _what do you want?_

This just seemed... easy.

“What’s up, Doc?” She asks cheekily, but you can hear the sincerity of the question (apparently she hadn’t lost the ability to read you like an open book).

“You know you should probably stop calling me that here, it has far different connotations, and my PhD in political sciences isn’t going to help me if someone’s coding.” It had happened before. Two words - not fun. Another seven words – holy Jesus, you saw an actual spleen. You shudder. She smiles.

“I just feel like I call you something and I’ve been trying stuff out to see how it goes.” That... actually explained a lot of odd occurrences over the past few days.

“That explains the Pumpkin thing yesterday.” And the sweetie thing. And the honey thing. And the princess thing - that one was definitely the weirdest attempt, something about it just seemed incredibly off balance.

“Do I?” She asks earnestly and you can’t help the blush that extends across your cheeks. Why did it have to be so embarrassing? Honey was a perfectly acceptable term of endearment and yet she just couldn’t help herself. She had to make it weird and then forget that she was the one that made it weird. “OK, that reaction was everything I could have hoped for. What is it? It’s embarrassing isn’t it? Is it wrong how excited I am?”

“Yes, it is embarrassing and well, you gave it to me actually.” You’re going to have to say it out loud. You’re actually going to have to say it, and you know how it sounds (you also know that there’s no way Clarke is going to take it any differently than the way it sounds now that she doesn’t have any context).

“What is it?” She prompts.

“Commander,” you mumble indignantly.

“Oooh... kinky.” You called it.

“Oh God, that’s not- That’s not why you call me it.”

“Yeah, no, you do strike me as a bottom.” She winks; your blush pushes new boundaries along your face, and goodness you really need to put a stop to this.

“Stop it.” It comes out sharp. It comes out in the same low tone you use to discipline students – the one that says, _‘I’m not going to shout at you, but know that this tone is worse, this is the tone you’ll be kicked out of my class in the next time you screw up’_. It was a tone that worked for you. The way Clarke swallows harshly and adjusts her position on the bed reminds you that it’s a tone that works for Clarke too.

“Okay, no, I get it now. Although, you were wrong, it is definitely kinky because that voice is really doing things for me. On that note I also rescind that bottom comment... a little, not fully.” You wish you could kiss her. You wish you could press your smile against hers and take a moment to simply enjoy the air still channelling through her lungs and the blood still running through her veins.

You wish.

You don’t.

“You’re an idiot,” you say half-heartedly with a laugh ready on the tip of your tongue. Clarke grins proudly at the response, like a child holding up their first finger painting to their mother. It’s adorable, and sweet, and you still think that this is all too easy, that she’s being too nice, that you should have to work harder to get into her good graces.

“Okay, what’s up really?” She urges and you put on your best confused face. It’s the same face you used when your mom asked you who broke her favourite lamp back in your senior year of high school. You blamed it on your brother playing football inside the house (it definitely was not you stumbling home drunk). Your parents had believed you straight off the bat. Your brother still held a grudge.

“What?” Something tells you feigning ignorance isn’t going to work this time when she rolls her eyes. You argue that it was still worth a shot, even if you’d never been able to pull it off with Clarke in the past - she seemed to have the uncanny ability to look straight into your soul.

“You have this look, and I may not know your middle name, but I know that look means something is wrong.” That couldn’t have been something she forgot? Not that you’re wishing that upon her but it could have been useful to have the ability to lie to your girlfriend every once in a while (mostly just so that you could pretend you weren’t the one who ate the last of the Ben & Jerry’s and that it was, in fact, her on one of her _late-night-half-asleep-too-invested-in-art_ raids).

“It’s nothing.” You try again.

“Lexa,” she warns lowly and you’re not entirely sure what she’s able to achieve whilst stuck in bed with broken ribs and a still slightly swollen brain, but she’s Clarke Griffin and you’re probably not going to test it too much. You sigh, and catch the victorious smile that passes quickly over her lips as she realises just how easily you’re going to give into her.

“It’s just; it wasn’t this easy last time.” It sounds stupid when you say it out loud. It sounds relatively stupid when you think it in your head but actually taking the time to form the words and vocalise them makes it sound at least ten times more ridiculous. You shuffle nervously on your feet and she cocks her brow at the movement and your statement alike.

“Would you like me to make it harder?” She questions and you tense automatically.

“NO!” You call abruptly before clearing your throat and beginning again. “No, of course not. It’s just... this is weird. It keeps feeling like you’re fine, and I keep forgetting that this thing has happened to you, and then you do something like ask me where I work, or where you work, or where we live and it hits me that I remember all of you but everything you know of me is superficial.”

“Then tell me something substantial,” she says simply, quickly, earnestly. It scares you. It scares you how willing she is to indulge you. It scares you how much you can tell she genuinely wants to know you, wants you to the answer the question with upmost honesty, wants to learn about you and your life and your life together. It scares you that you might disappoint her. It scares you that maybe this Clarke (the Clarke before you) expected her life to turn out differently.

“What if you realise that you can’t love me, that last time was just a fluke and now that you have a fresh start you-“ You’re thankful she cuts you off before the rambling begins.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” You’re less thankful for the philosophical and ambiguous question.

“I don’t suppose I’ve ever really thought about it.” Perhaps not the definitive answer she was looking for but it’s the truth. It’s never really crossed your mind to debate destiny and fate and divine providence. You suppose on some level it would be nice to believe everyone has that someone that they’re meant for, that everyone - no matter how alone they feel - has someone out there that was designed for them.

It would be nice.

You wish you could believe it.

But in the end you’re cynical, and you love Clarke with every inch of your being, but you don’t think some seraphic entity would ever place the two of you in the same playing field, let alone intend for you to be one for the rest of your lives. As far as you’re concerned Clarke loving you is a fluke, the best god damn fluke in the world, but a fluke nonetheless.

“Well, I do, and I can’t explain it but a lotta people came walking in and out of this room on that first day. _A lot_. It was entirely overwhelming and honestly I recognised maybe three out of however many people are supposed to be part of my life and then there was you. There you were and it- everything... things seemed to make sense and I didn’t feel so scared anymore. So tell me. Tell me anything you want. I _want_ to know you. I _need_ to know you.”

“Grace,” you say your voice soft with astonishment.

“What?” She replies confusedly and you smile as you brave taking her hand in your own. You’re not sure you had really noticed how much you had missed it - just being able to feel the solid weight of Clarke’s hand in your own. Your heart clenches when she swipes her thumb across your knuckles. There had been a nagging voice at the back of your head for a few days now, whispering that you hadn’t paid enough attention to the last time you had gotten to feel the delicate calluses coating her hands, and the furnace like warmth they always seemed to exude.

But now here you were.

A part of you wants to cry. You won’t do it. You won’t do it because you’re Alexandria Woods and you weren’t raised to cry just because a pretty girl held your hand again. There’s still some part of your head though, some dark corner of your mind, that debates letting the tears that threaten to flood just drop down your cheeks. Instead you smile, so hard that your face aches. You haven’t smiled the same way since the morning Clarke left for work promising you a nice dinner.

“My middle name.” She tilts her head as though assessing the name fully before nodding sharply and grinning. She squeezes your hand before speaking again and it both startles and settles your heart.

“Well, I don’t hate you yet, keep going.” You can’t remember where you begin, or where you stop. You do remember that she’s still holding your hand when you stop talking and you can’t really think of a single thing that means more than that.

* * *

 

“There is the kitchen, where we eat. Down the hall on the right is the bathroom, where we clean ourselves and things. Then this, that we are currently standing in, is the living room where we-“

“Live?” You laugh nervously, it’s high pitched and short and it gives away your anxiety perhaps even more than the rambling that prompted her joke in the first place. ”Calm down, Lex, I liked this place enough to live in it before.” It’s a fair point - even more so considering you hated the place when Clarke first suggested you go look at it. But then she started showing you where she would hang her paintings, and where the couch would go so that the two of you could curl up on it and people watch, and debating all the colours that the walls could be painted.

She tried so hard to get you to like it.

(She didn’t need to - she had you the moment she smiled, wide eyed and arms spread excitedly, in the open expanse of an empty apartment).

“Right, well, the bedroom is just down there on the left.” You still can’t believe she’s actually here. You still can’t believe she is in your home that she picked to come back to instead of going to her mother’s. You still can’t believe she picked you. You still can’t believe that this living, breathing, joking entity is your Clarke and that, despite the setbacks and the obvious problems, she’s fine.

_She’s alive._

“Ah, and a bedroom is where you sleep?” She mocks and your eye roll is second nature, more of a reflex than it is an actual choice.

“Very funny,” you deadpan but she takes a mock bow regardless, winking at you when she straightens up and notices that you’re trying not to smile at her antics but failing miserably.

“I try. You sure I wasn’t a comedian before this whole thing?” She chances.

“Definitely.” There is no doubt in your mind that Clarke could not be a comedian. Sure, she was fantastic at mocking you, and taking the piss out of Raven, and, yes, she was always sarcastic enough to get Anya to crack a smirk but she could not tell an actual joke to save her life.

She always forgot the most important facts that made the joke work, or got to the end and suddenly couldn’t remember the punch line, or she would just laugh so hard that she couldn’t actually get the joke out and her ‘ _audience_ ’ would simply stand there confused, waiting for some kind of joke to appear from disjointed chuckles.

“Guess you’ve been keeping my great comedic talents all for yourself. Kinda selfish, Lex,” she admonishes and it suddenly strikes you that you want to kiss her again. You suppose, deep down, some part of you always wants Clarke’s lips on yours but it’s right there. Now the want is sitting on the surface, sparking in the tips of your fingers, and lingering on the point of your tongue.

You need to get away.

You need to take three, four, five steps back and regain some clarity.

“Everything you should need is in the bedroom. I labelled the drawers and stuff so that you wouldn’t be super confused and I’ll be here if you need me.” You point to the sheets and pillows you’ve piled on the sofa for your makeshift bed.

“I can’t make you sleep out here in your own home,” she argues.

“It’s your home too Clarke,” you throw back. Honestly, you’re not going to complain about taking the couch - you specifically bought it in the mindset that you were probably going to fall asleep on it at some point when you came home from work too tired to remember what door opened what.

In the end, you sleep on it more than you should, but you always wake up with a blanket wrapped around you and a new photo message from Clarke of you sleeping (you’re not sure what she’s compiling them for but she’s best friends with Raven Reyes so you don’t think it can really be anything good).

“Then we’ll take the bed together.” That was not a solution you were expecting and it is definitely not a solution you should be agreeing to.

“I don’t want to...”

“Stop making a big deal. I may not know everything I used to, but I do know that you’re not a serial killer and that you make my palms sweaty, but like, in a good way.” Well that’s...

You still shouldn’t.

She pouts.

You stand your ground for one second.

Two.

Thr-

“Fine,” you huff in resignation and she pumps her fist in victory.

“Something about that tone tells me I get my way a lot,” she endeavours and you wish you could contest it. It would be nice to be able to say that you managed to exude some of the confidence and power you used at work whilst at home but you couldn’t. That’s not to say that your opinion is invalid, or Clarke is some evil tyrant behind closed doors. It’s more to do with the fact that you would do almost anything to make Clarke smile.

“You have no idea.”

“Oh, this is just fantastic.”

* * *

 

You wake up face to face.

You wake up to Clarke watching you with a look that you suppose you would describe as wonder. You wake up to Clarke’s hands attempting to memorise the structure of your face. You wake up to fingers grazing your jaw, and painting unidentifiable shapes onto your cheeks. You wake up to warm palms splayed against your neck, feeling for the pulse beneath (the one that gets more erratic with each new passing second). You wake up to curious limbs and focused eyes and a special kind of softness you’ve always related to Clarke.

“I wish I remembered what it was like to kiss you,” she mumbles, voice clouded with sleep but hands steady and sure as they run through your assumedly messy locks. The words make your heart skip. It takes you a second to recall how words are even formed before you can begin to articulate a response.

“Clarke,” you warn because that’s all your mind can think, because that’s the only word it can manage to conjure, because it’s all you can do to not give in to what you believe to be a thinly veiled request. It’s not enough. It doesn’t deter her enough. It doesn’t make your heart calm down or your wind stop whirring. It’s not enough.

_It’s not enough._

“I wish I remembered the rhythm your heart follows.” Her hand trips over your chest. Fingers splay themselves over your heart. She must sense how erratically it’s thumping because her wide eyes catch yours before she begins tapping along with the beat.

“I wish I remembered the catch of your breath when I do something just right.” Hands trail lower. She lingers on your ribs as they rise and fall towards her palms. You breathe deeply as her fingers slowly count the bones that make up the cage... one... two... three...four - she stops. Her hands tremble as they trickle down your abdomen, spill over alabaster skin like a question, a promise, a pledge.

“I wish I remembered-“ You catch it, hold her hands with all the will you have left in your body, and will yourself to remember just why this is a bad idea, to remember that this Clarke is vulnerable and stumbling through her own life, and needs time.

_Remember._

_You can’t._

“You don’t have to do this. I can wait. I will wait,” you whisper, too afraid to raise your voice any louder in case she can hear the shake of your words, or the faltering nature of your resolve.

“I’m not doing this out of some weird kind of obligation. I’m doing this because something about you feels right even though nothing else at the moment seems to make any sense.”

“Clarke,” still seems to be all you can say. It’s a warning mixed with sympathy this time. She’s looking for comfort and you’ll give it to her but not like this. This isn’t what she needs. No matter how much you want to kiss her and hear the reverent way she calls your name (a way unlike anything you’ve ever experienced with anyone else), you won’t do it like this.

She needs time.

You waited once.

You can wait again.

“Lexa,” she mocks with a small smile - one that tells you she knows exactly what you’re thinking, one that is both thankful and resigned. You place a gentle kiss on her cheek before rolling yourself out of the bed somewhat gracefully and smiling tenderly as you turn back to face her.

“Coffee?”

“Yeah.” You nod and begin to step away before you feel her hand clamp loosely around your wrist. “Don’t think I didn’t mean what I said.” All you can do is nod as you take your exit and will your heart to slow back down to its normal pace.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

(It’s erratic ‘til lunch, and even when it settles, something still feels irregular).

* * *

 

“Would you like Chinese or Thai?” It’s been around three months. Precisely ninety-two days. Everything feels more normal. There’s a rhythm that the two of you have fallen into, one that’s remarkably similar to what it used to be.

You still haven’t kissed her.

Sometimes you wake up with her in your arms and the urge hits you like a freight train, or she comes home dripping with rain and you’re transported back to the first time she kissed you (you never failed to kiss her when it rained), or she just smiles and as you try to remember what you’re actually supposed to be doing you think it would be so stupendously easy to just kiss her.

You still haven’t kissed her.

“What’s this?” Clarke asks quietly, effectively cutting off your musings and ending the indecisive flicks of your fingers as they switched between menus unsurely. Takeout menus flutter unceremoniously to the floor as you take it what she’s holding.

“A ring,” you say simply. A diamond ring. The kind you would buy if you wanted to marry someone. The kind you had been looking at in stores for months before the accident. The kind that, when on someone’s hand says, _I’m adored and loved and back off creepy dude in the three piece._

“I can see that.”

“Then why ask?” You snap. She flinches and you wish you hadn’t said it, but you can’t bring yourself to apologise. You can’t bring yourself to do anything more than stare at it like it’s a piece of a UFO, or an identifiable element, or a god damn engagement ring.

“Lexa,” she implores and your hands are already fumbling for your coat before you reply.

“I didn’t buy that.” You hadn’t got round to it. You hadn’t found the right one, the _perfect_ one. You had spent hours in stores but that wasn’t your ring, except that is _your_ ring. You didn’t buy it but that ring was yours. That was meant to be yours.

She was going to...

Clarke was...

“Then I...” She fumbles for the right words.

“We were supposed to go to dinner the night of your accident. You’d been acting sketchy about it all week. I never thought. I-I, err, I didn’t. You...” You need to breathe. You need air. You need space. You can’t let yourself think about what could have been. You can’t think about what would have been had some asshole not ran a red light. You can’t think about a nervous Clarke down on one knee. You can’t think about how the ring is everything you’d imagined it would be when you dared yourself to dream.

You can’t.

“I have to go.” Your feet fumble. You stumble. Your mind bumbles. You stumble. Your heart crumbles. You grab your coat numbly and scramble for the door handle in a poor attempt to just be away from this whole thing already.

“Lex, I’m sorry, don’t- don’t go, I-“ She reaches for you, grimaces as you flinch away like a spooked cat before you blindly grab your keys and make your speedy escape.

“I just need some air. I’ll bring food back.”

You don’t see Clarke again until you’re completely hammered. You actually see two of her when she first arrives but you’re drunk enough to not question how little that makes sense. You don’t know how she got here, how she knew that this would be the dive bar you chose; honestly you can’t even remember why you chose it anymore.

You’re not entirely sure how much you’ve had to drink – enough that your drunkenness scale places you somewhere between Anya’s bachelorette party (see: you singing karaoke with all your might) and your first real college party (see: waking up with a monster of a headache, in bed with three other girls and no recollection of how you got there).

You do vaguely recall telling the bartender about Clarke (only because you did it so much and so often that at least one instance managed to stick). You suppose she must’ve been the one to eventually call her - it can’t have been hard considering you never removed Clarke from the number one spot on your speed dial. She’s been number one since the first time she kissed you. Anya had mocked you for weeks. Raven picked up the slack when she eventually stopped for another few.

“Clarke!” You slur before you can hold your tongue. “Harper, my bartending budmeister - this is Clarke.” You point excitedly to the newly arrived blonde who offers a small wave to the chuckling bartender. Then she looks down at you softly, with more sympathy than you think you can handle, and you can already feel your mind clearing.

“I think I should get you home.” Her hand runs through your hair. The cloud in your head begins to dissipate. You disagree.

“I think I should get me the next cocktail off the menu, I’m halfway down the list I’ll have you know.” You need to get more drunk, more quickly. You need a blank slate, a clear mind, you need to be able to look at Clarke and not see her nervously down on one knee. You need to be drunk enough that you don’t even remember what marriage is.

You need shots.

And some scotch.

And whatever other fruity concoction you can still manage to pronounce in your boggled state.

“I don’t doubt it but I really think we should go back.”

“But I haven’t forgotten yet.” You sound weak, and resigned, and a bunch of things you generally enjoy pretending you don’t feel. You allow yourself the indulgence of resting your head against Clarke’s stomach because you might as well at this point (you’ll just blame it on the alcohol if things are awkward in the morning) and because the world is spinning and you need something solid to hold onto.

“Forgotten what?” It’s a timid question, like she knows you’ve had the answer brewing since you walked out the door but she’s still afraid to hear it. Deep down you’re afraid to say it. On the surface, however, you’re far too many drinks in to stop yourself.

“That you don’t remember me and I remember everything about you. The first time we met you were wearing a blue sweater that your mom got you for Christmas, you _hated_ it, but you wore it all the time anyway because it was the first thing she ever knitted. The first time you ever complimented me was the day my washing machine broke and I had to wear an Arkers shirt to work and hell, it wasn’t even a real compliment, you just told me you were glad my taste in music wasn’t all shit too. When we got together you hid all the unhealthy snacks in your apartment in incredibly weird places, hoping I wouldn’t stumble upon them, because you got it in your head that I was some health freak who never ate chocolate. You have a birthmark on your right thigh that is shaped eerily like Florida, and in second grade Raven peed her pants so you spilled juice on your own to make her feel better about it. It was grape. That’s your favourite kind of juice – unless peach is involved. You love peach. Peach is the flavour lip balm I wear because I know you like it.”

“Lexa.” It’s a plea this time. A plea for you to hear her out. A plea for you to get out of your own head. A plea for you to just keep talking until you’ve finally let it all out. You really need to just let it all out. Instead you pick up your coat and put it on precisely, slipping your phone and your keys into your pocket reflexively.

“I’m drunk. We should go,” you say simply but you both know the slur to your words has gone and although you can still feel the buzzing in your veins, your mind feels sharp. You wish it would be blurry again. She catches your hand when you try to walk away. The tug she delivers pulls you further into her orbit than either of you expected.

She pauses.

You take a subtle step away.

She pauses.

Then closes the space again.

“I want to learn those things about you, and I’m sorry that you’ll have to tell them to me all over again, but I want to know. I want to know _you_. I want to know what your favourite juice is, and what the first present I ever bought you was, and how ridiculously in love we were because I know we were, _we must have been_ , because I can still feel it. You just have to tell me.”

You kiss her because you’re weak. You kiss her because you’re inebriated. You kiss her because it’s all you’ve thought about for days, weeks, months. You kiss her because her hand wrapped around your wrist burns with once was and can be. You kiss her because you love her and you miss her lips and her hands and _her._ You shouldn’t do it. You shouldn’t.

_You kiss her because you’re weak._

“What was that for?” Her eyes are still closed when you chance opening your own. She breathes absently as she tips her forehead against yours. The fabric of your coat is clutched tightly between her fingers, as your own hands wrap gently around them.

It feels desperate.

It feels frantic.

_It feels like the first time._

“The first time we kissed for real it came out of nowhere. I was so surprised that I didn’t kiss back for a moment and you almost pulled away before I came to my senses. It made me forget how to breathe. It was...”

“Unforgettable?” She quips with a watery smile. You shake your head solemnly.

“Everything.”

* * *

 

You don’t talk about it.

You’re still blaming the alcohol. Clarke is still attempting to talk about it before realising she’ll probably spook you into running and instead deciding to ask you random questions. The thing is you know exactly when Clarke is thinking about kissing you because she squares her shoulders like this will finally be the time and then she deflates before asking you what your favourite animal is.

Except for the other day.

The other day she had squared her shoulders and you braced yourself for the actual question just in case (you went through the escape routes in your head and practised your _I’m sorry I crossed your boundaries_ apology that you had drunkenly written the night of the event).

You were prepared. She didn’t deflate. You panicked. You definitely weren’t prepared. But then she had asked you something else, something that you weren’t entirely sure was better – “ _will you go to my mum’s fundraiser with me?”_

That’s how you ended up in a dress, listening to old men tell you about their lives, like how well they did at golf that weekend bettered your own existence in any way. It did not. What did better your life was how beautiful Clarke looked, even as she nervously tugged at her own dress and gulped wine at a dangerous rate.

She catches your eye quickly from across the room, rolling her eyes grandly as she gestures to the man beside her who is waffling on about something or other. You go to save her because she’s your girlfriend still, despite all of this, and because you think this is a date. You think this is a date because she nervously said you were breathtaking when you found her waiting to leave on the couch, and she hadn’t stopped holding your hand until you had to go to the bathroom, and your palms were sweaty - like, first (kind of) date with a pretty girl sweaty, that distinct kind of sweatiness that was both uncomfortable and exciting.

Or maybe you were reading into it.

Maybe you were making this something that it wasn’t.

Maybe-

Maybe Finn Collins was walking up to Clarke. You don’t hesitate now. You make it to Clarke’s side in record time, slipping your arm gently around her waist in a manner you hope is both comforting and acts as a _fuck you_ to Finn (honestly, at this point in time, the latter means just that little bit more to you).

“Clarke Griffin, as I live and breathe, don’t you look stunning.” You hate him. You hate him and his stupid charming face, and his stupid floppy hair, and his stupid egotistical grin. You want to punch him. Everyone wants to punch him. Generally Clarke very much wants to punch him except now she’s just smiling. She is smiling at Finn Collins like everything is golden and he didn’t cheat on her with several women (a fact that Clarke herself had never actually told you - it was Raven that had spilled those beans one night, after way too much tequila).

“Finn Collins, I haven’t seen you in a while.” You tug her closer. Clarke makes no comment as she slips her own arm around you, but you can see the twitch on his face that tells you he knows what you’re doing, that he knows he’s getting under your skin even just standing this close and he’s enjoying it.

“I know. I heard about the accident though, and the memory thing. I’m so sorry.” Of course he heard about it. Of course he heard about it and was now over here being all smarmy and douchey and trying to weasel his way back into Clarke’s life.

_You hate him._

“Speaking of that, I totally forgot to introduce you guys. Lex, this is Finn - we went to college together.” She was so oblivious, and so smiley, and why were you thinking about how much you want to kiss her at a time like this?

You shouldn’t be thinking about that.

You should be thinking about how to escape this situation, or how to somehow signal Raven from wherever she disappeared to so the two of you could kick his ass together, not how Clarke was wearing her favourite red lipstick and how much you loved when you’d find it on the collars of your shirts (despite how much you pretended you hated it when you groaned about having to keep excessively washing them).

“We’ve met,” you say simply, staring blankly at his outstretched hand until he has the sense to drop it back to his side. The real issue is that the last time you saw Finn Collins you were smashing your fist against his face. You had bloody knuckles for a week but he had a broken nose and Clarke had gone home with you.

That was almost three years ago. You know because Raven plans a party around it each year, well, you say party, it’s mostly you guys hitting a piñata of Finn’s face and ordering Chinese food because he always told Clarke he hated it. You thought it was fun. Clarke did too. Anya strangely was the one usually having most of the fun - probably because it was the one night a year you were susceptible to agreeing to egg a grown man’s house.

“I’m sorry Finn; I think the two of us need to go have a talk. It was nice to see you again.” You can feel his eyes following her lasciviously as she pulls you away, and if you flip him off in your exit, well you can’t be held entirely accountable for your actions.

“What was that?” She questions sharply the moment she’s managed to pull you far enough away from prying eyes. You probably should have put up more of a fight so you could have avoided the inevitable chew out you’re about to receive. Actually, no, you know that Clarke would have done it in front of all those people without question if she found too much resistance. It happened before. You did _not_ want to repeat that one.

“Are you angry with me?” Is a stupid question, and yet, it’s still the one you find yourself asking. _Good one, Lexa. Real stellar decision making._

“Finn was my friend.” You scoff involuntarily. “Is it because I dated him?” She pushes and yeah, maybe you were jealous the first time you heard about Clarke’s ex, but then you met him and that jealousy was outweighed by the severe need to punch the stupid trust fund kid.

“No, it’s because he-“You cut yourself off. You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to have to say it. Honestly, you’re not entirely sure that you can bring yourself to say it out loud.

“Because he what, Lexa?” She prods.

“You’re better off not knowing.”

“You can’t keep things from me.” She steps closer, dips her head to catch your eyes as you stare resolutely at the ground. She’s right of course. You don’t get to decide what she is and isn’t allowed to know from her past - she deserves to be able to create a clear picture of her life, even if it is something bad.

_Except..._

“But what if knowing might make you sad; what if knowing makes you angry when you didn’t need to be, when you wouldn’t have been if he didn’t show his stupid face?” She gently lifts your chin until you meet her eyes.

“What did he do Lex?” She tries again and you jerk away.

“He cheated on you!” You blurt out loudly before you crumble. The rest comes out in a whisper when you finally find the courage to speak again. “He cheated on you and I know he hit you even though you wouldn’t say it aloud. I could see it in your eyes, Clarke. I used to feel it when I first touched you - that panic, that raw fear. And you just smiled at him. You smiled at him, and said it was nice to see him, like he was someone who deserved those formalities, like he was someone worthy of basking in the light of your smile and it made me feel sick because you’re worth so much more than that dirtba-“

Clarke kisses you. She kisses you like you’re the one who might break, like you’re the one who needs comfort, and warmth, and safety. Clarke kisses you without intention, without an agenda. She kisses you with soft lips and tender hands and an ardour that lingers just below the surface. She kisses you like it’s the first time. She kisses you like it could be the last time.

Clarke kisses you with everything.

Clarke kisses you like you’re everything.

“You can’t do that,” you mumble when she pulls back to catch her breath.

“Why not? You’re my girlfriend, and you’re upset, and you’re sweet. Those are three amazing reasons why kissing you is perfectly okay. Can you tell me one good reason other than I’m missing some bits and pieces from my memory as to why we shouldn’t kiss?” How are you supposed to think logically when she’s all close, and in your space, and looking like you should definitely be kissing her again?

“It’s more than bits and pieces,” you argue.

“Give me one.” She pulls you closer. _Shit._

“I-“You’re trying to think of a reason. Literally any other reason than you’re afraid, and you’re trying to be noble, and you’re afraid, and you still have this nagging feeling that maybe this isn’t really what she wants or what she needs, and _you’re afraid._ “Oh, fuck it.”

You kiss her. You kiss her until you can’t kiss her anymore because of the smile on your face. You kiss her until you don’t trust yourself to stop. You kiss her until her lipstick is smudged and your dress is rumpled. You kiss her until your heart is slamming dangerously in your chest. You kiss her until her mother interrupts with a disapproving stare (you kiss her until you’re laughing too hard at Raven dancing manically behind Mrs Griffin’s back to even think of continuing). You kiss her until you think you’ve gotten it out of your system.

You definitely haven’t.

You probably never will.

* * *

 

You’re in a lecture when it happens.

She blows in like a tornado, talking a mile a minute before you can even excuse your class, or begin to register what it is that she’s babbling about. You vaguely note the shushing that comes from a student sitting diligently in the front row but you have no time for suck ups when Clarke looks like this so you glare him into silence. She looks so excited and she still hasn’t slowed down and you honestly still have no idea what is going on. She must clock that everything coming from her mouth is going in one ear and coming out the other because she stops for a second.

One breath.

Two breaths.

“December tenth. We met on December tenth, the same day that I walked in on Finn cheating on me and finally brought myself to leave him. I was angry, and you walked straight into me wearing that stupid blazer-“

“You love that blazer,” you chime in with a grin. You very much remember a particularly steamy night that involved you wearing said blazer and not much else. Clarke seemed to love it then (in her defence, you had never loved the blazer more than in that moment either).

“On you,” she states firmly and you can’t help the chuckle that reverberates around the room. But then it hits you. It hits you like a tonne of bricks and suddenly you can’t laugh, you can hardly breathe, because Clarke remembers. She remembers the blazer, and probably the stack of drawings that flew away when you crashed into her, and you.

_Clarke remembers you._

“Not on that day though,” she continues. “That day I decided I would shift all my anger to you because you were prim, and proper, and snapped at me even though you definitely walked into me first. But then you started doing all those sweet things and I didn’t want to admit that I was wrong so I started being snappy, and sarcastic, and calling you an asshole despite you being the very opposite of an asshole.”

“You-“ You’re freaking out. Clarke remembers. Clarke liked you way before she let you in. Clarke didn’t think you were an asshole. Clarke remembers. Clarke remembers. _Clarke Griffin fucking remembers._

“January twentieth was the day I realised I liked you, like _really liked_ you. Your mom came into work with a packed lunch she made you, demanded that you ate it with her because she hadn’t seen you all week, and you didn’t flinch. You just ate your tuna fish sandwich with a smile and listened to her bitch about her neighbour for twenty minutes straight. It was adorable, and badass, and it was the first time I saw you wearing glasses which was definitely working for me.”

You remember that day. Your mother always walked with an air of confidence that couldn’t be rivalled (even after years of practise yours wasn’t half as good). Although you understand how she built herself that way. You understand why a black woman in a nice neighbourhood would need to go out of her way to stand tall, to prove she knew her value even if others didn’t. You understand how the whole thing must’ve been made worse when she adopted a lesbian and still continued to survive day in and day out in a community that was all about gossip and God.

You certainly remember that neighbour, devoutly Christian and causing problems for your mom from the second it became common knowledge that you kissed Costia from the street over. Your memory is even more solid when it comes to the first time you heard your mother tell her to _watch her mouth_ and _treat her child with the respect that God would give her_.

_(You also remember the tuna sandwich because she made a delicious one)._

“I’m glad you’re finally admitting it,” you quip. You always knew the glasses did more for Clarke than she let on. It was all in the eyes. And also in the way she was always more likely to try convince you to have sex in a public place when you were wearing them (you were not always strong enough to say no).

“The first time you kissed me I freaked out because it was... mind-blowing. But I was still figuring myself out and you deserved more than that. You deserved me to be ready. But then I just got scared and kept waiting and waiting, until Raven told me to stop being a jackass and I decided to do an even more jackass thing - you know, like run two blocks in the rain without a coat. The cold sucked but you were worth it or, at least, your chicken soup was definitely worth it.”

“It’s the secret ingredient.”

“I know that you put-“ You put your hand over her mouth quickly, mockingly taking a suspicious look over your shoulder, before pulling your hand away with a wink.

“What are you doing? That’s our secret.” Clarke grins. You grin back. She’s closer now. Every movement carefully calculated to get closer, to touch more of your skin. She takes a breath. Her hand catches yours. She blinks. A step presses her chest to your own. Her smile turns soft. Her thumb brushes over your lips like she’s afraid she’ll forget what they feel like all over again.

“You have a tattoo on your back of something incredibly nerdy that I still don’t completely understand. Your favourite book is Pride and Prejudice even though you tell everyone it’s To Kill a Mockingbird. You hate black olives but love green ones and the first time you told me you loved me it was by accident and you tried to walk away before you bumped straight into a tree.” You hear various snickers echo around the room. It’s the first time you truly register that you have an audience. You fall back into Clarke. You fall back into the memory of how awkward that had been before Clarke picked you up off the floor and assured you that she loved you too.

“Kind of wish you didn’t remember that one,” you mumble under your breath but she catches it and replies with excited laughter.

“I remember. I remember that I love you, and I remember that this, _us_ , is the most important thing in my life and I love you and I remember.” Tears trickle, then stream, down her cheeks as she says it over and over again. Repeats it like a mantra. Cries it out with the reverence of a prayer. Whispers it like it’s something pure, and holy, and too perfect for unworthy ears. “I remember,” she sobs one last time and then she kisses you.

You definitely register your audience when you hear raucous clapping and whistling echoing around the hall. You pull away sheepishly when you hear the words “Get it, Dr. Woods!” called from the back of the room but you don’t let Clarke out of your arms. You don’t think you can even bring yourself to do so.

“You can all just, um, just go home.” They all stare. One girl in the corner genuinely gasps and you find yourself having to stifle laughter at the reaction your words receive. No one has moved. You wonder if they think that this is some kind of trick to get them into trouble but, come on, you’re icy not insane.

“I thought we had that test,” a student at the front braves commenting. Still no one moves. You can feel Clarke’s laughter against your neck as she attempts to keep quiet. You roll your eyes as you gesture for them to pack up their things. A girl at the front narrows her eyes calculatingly before she slowly swings her backpack on and strolls out the door. The rest stay still.

“Leave now and you all pass.”

“Have a great day, Dr. Woods,” someone calls and then they’re all pouring out of the doors shouting excitedly. You try to glare at the student who lifts up your hand and slaps it resolutely upon his exit but you just end up smiling, then laughing, and then Clarke is kissing you and you honestly don’t care that you’ve destroyed your badass persona in two minutes flat because Clarke remembers and she’s smiling at you like you personally hung the moon in the sky.

“How would you feel about being Dr. Griffin-Woods?” She asks softly as she already slips the cold metal onto your finger. You kiss her softly. Smile. Kiss her again.

“I can think of nothing I’d like more.”


End file.
